


One night stands and vanilla cupcakes

by redtoes



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Diggle loves cupcakes, F/M, Felicity bakes when she's happy, Oliver is being annoyingly obstructive in terms of his own love life, One Night Stand, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-07
Updated: 2013-07-24
Packaged: 2017-12-18 00:02:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/873424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redtoes/pseuds/redtoes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Felicity has a one night stand with a hot stranger. Oliver is unimpressed. Diggle thinks the two of them need to get over this shit already but so long as Felicity bakes him cupcakes he's not getting in the way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Vanilla

**Author's Note:**

> Response to a tumblr prompt from Abbie. The original request was for a few sentences. Here, have 1700 words. 
> 
> I own nothing. But I do have a good cupcake recipe.

She's not the type to go home with a guy from a bar. She likes her sex emotional, with meaning. But sometimes a girl just wants to get laid and there isn't a convenient male friend around with whom she has the kind of relationship that can include the occasional night of no strings attached sex. Damn, she misses Josh from college sometimes. It was never anything real but it was fun and now he’s married and Jessica is having all that fun and she doesn’t resent it at all, but still, he was a very useful friend to have. 

And her current close male friends are the reason why she needs a night of no strings attached fun. Or they would be if she allowed herself to think like that.

So here she is accepting a second drink from Dan from Coast City. He's tall, which she likes, and he’s friendly, and she’s not getting any creepy, crazy vibes here. There’s no wedding ring and no dimple on his finger that suggests the wedding ring is in a pocket. And if his shoulders aren't as impressive as Oliver’s or his arms as large as John’s he’s still here, buying her drinks and paying her compliments and it’s not because she can hack into Interpol in under an hour. 

It’s purely because he thinks she's pretty and that he might be about to get lucky. And you know what? She is perfectly okay with that.

She buys Dan from Coast City a drink and listens to his stories about his boss in the media agency he works in. He’s smooth, she'll give him that, full of amusing small talk and quips. Not quite as smooth as Oliver in full-on playboy mode but who is, really? Oliver’s playboy mode is a thin veneer - she doesn’t understand how more people don't see through it. Dan may be turning on the charm but it's only to get her into bed, not to hide a secret life shooting people full of arrows.

So she drinks the drinks and when he asks if she wants another she puts her hand on his and says that her apartment is only two blocks from here and she has a bottle of wine in the fridge and does he want to join her for a glass?

The wine stays in the fridge.

Dan kisses her in the elevator and she wraps her arms around him and holds on tight, letting her body make the choices instead of her head.

He’s not a bad kisser, but he has magic hands.

Her blouse is half unbuttoned before she manages to unlock the door to her apartment, and then she’s pressed up against the wall beside the door with her shirt open and his lips on her breasts.

She didn't plan on a one night stand this morning so she’s glad to see she's wearing underwear that mostly matches. This is one of her favourite bras - all colourful lace and non-digging in underwire - and Dan certainly seems to appreciate it.

She drops her bag on the floor and pushes his jacket back off his shoulders. 

He doesn’t pick her up and she’s happy with that. That’s something that happens in her Oliver fantasies and right now she wants something real, something not him, and so the fact that Dan doesn’t pick her up is good.

Instead, she guides him down the corridor to her bedroom, shedding clothes as they go.

She slips off her skirt and almost trips over it on the floor and he catches her and both of them laugh. 

She kisses him as she undoes his belt and he unbuttons his pants and then it’s his turn to almost trip. 

They enter her bedroom with her in her open blouse over underwear and him in boxer shorts and socks.

The buttons on her cuffs are tiny and fiddly and she has to pause to undo them, and so Dan steps up behind her, kissing her neck and distracting her as she does so.

His hands come up under the shirt, one hand flat on her stomach and the other stroking over the top of her breast feather-light and teasing.

She catches sight of them in the mirror, sees his dark hair beside her own and he looks up to catch her looking and he grins, pushing the blouse down and out of the way so she can see his hands on her skin. See his hand slip down into her underwear, see her face as she reacts to his touch.

“You like to watch?” He whispers, and she doesn't, not really, but this is incredibly hot and so she nods.

After a while her eyes fall closed and she just experiences the sensations of him.

But she never for one second loses sight of who she is with.

Dan from Coast City.

* * *

Dan kisses her goodbye in the morning and offers her a phone number which she takes and knows she’ll never use.

It was a fun night, a great night, but it was one night and she has no need to make more of it than it was.

It’s a Saturday and he had suggested he could stay longer, but she made him coffee and dropped hints and he left without her having to move beyond hints.

It’s the end of Summer, there's a chill in the air but the sun is still shinning and so she pulls a sundress and little cardigan from her wardrobe, determined to enjoy what good weather there is left.

She promised John she’d stop by Verdant in the afternoon, but she’s got a few hours to kill and she feels like making something with her own two hands so she pulls out the mixer and make sure she has all the ingredients and before long there’s a batch of vanilla cupcakes browning in the oven and she’s curled in her favourite chair beside an open window, looking out over Starling City as she absently scrolls through news alerts and animated gifs on her tablet.

From here the city looks sunny and safe, the city Oliver strives for it to be. 

She ices the cakes and feels not unlike a Disney heroine; enjoying the sunshine and making cakes and singing along with her iPod in a pretty summer dress.

She packs four cakes in a box and drives to Verdant. She'll take six in for the office on Monday and the others she'll keep for herself.

She wonders what Oliver’s reaction will be to her bringing cakes to his super secret hideout.

She’s sure it'll be worth seeing.

* * *

“I bring cake!” He hears and the sheer incongruity of it makes him pause and Diggle manages to slip one past his guard and the escrima stick comes down hard on his knuckles.

“Ow!”

Oliver glares at Diggle, who looks incredibly smug.

“Easily distracted,” his bodyguard chides him, then looks past him and grins. “Felicity,” he greets, “did you say cake?”

“Cupcakes,” Felicity says happily and he turns to see her beaming at the pair of them and holding up a Tupperware box with four iced cakes inside it. “Want one?”

“I never say ’no’ to cake,” Diggle says, laying the escrima sticks down on a nearby table. “What's the occasion?”

“I felt like baking,” Felicity says, but there’s an edge to her voice that he can't quite identify. She sounds happy, satisfied, almost as smug as Diggle looked to get past Oliver’s guard.

“You made these? Damn, Felicity they look great.”

“Thanks!” She says brightly, “but maybe you should wait until you try one.”

Diggle doesn't need more prompting, reaching in to pick up one of the small cakes. He peels the paper case back and takes a bite, managing to smear icing all over his face.

Felicity giggles but Diggle obviously has no regrets.

“Oliver?” She says, holding the box out to him. “Do you want one?” It’s almost shy the way she holds the box out, looking at him over her glasses. It's adorable. He’s not really sure why he’s saying no. He likes cake.

“You’ve got to try these, Oliver,” Diggle says and Oliver sees that there is icing on the man’s nose. “They’re great.”

“Maybe later,” he says and he sees Felicity’s face fall just a little. “I'm all sweaty,” he offers as an excuse, “let me clean up.”

“Heh,” Diggle says, “move fast Queen, I can't promise there'll be any left for you.”

“That’s the chance I’ll take,” he says, walking past the two of them.

He pats his face dry with a towel and watches Felicity tease Diggle about the icing on his nose.

There’s something different about Felicity this morning and he’s not sure if he likes it. She seems more relaxed than normal. She’s certainly never brought cake to the basement before.

There's a flush to her cheeks and she’s smiling.

She seems happy.

All at once he wants a cupcake, wants to be part of her happiness. And so he walks back to them and she’s smiling and grinning and taking off her cardigan to hang it over the back of the chair and he sees it.

A hickey on the back of her neck, right where the line of her neck meets her shoulder.

It’s dark and red and he swears he can almost see teeth marks on her skin.

It's not the only mark on her shoulders. Now he’s looking and now the cardigan is gone he can see faint scratches, patches of red - the marks of someone’s mouth and hands on Felicity’s oh so pale and precious skin.

He feels his hands tighten into fists and he has to remind himself that she's not his, she's her own person and he doesn't want her like that.

And he sees her hand come up to rub at the back of her neck, sees her touch the sensitive mark that someone else’s lips left on her and sees the moment when she realises what she’s touching and the smile that plays on her lips and the flush it brings to her cheeks.

And he decides that no, he doesn't want a cupcake.

He’s going to go and murder tennis balls in peace instead.

And try very hard not to think about what and who she was with last night.


	2. Chocolate fudge

Blonde hair tumbles down as her head falls back.

His hands move over her skin.

He bites down on her shoulder and she moans. He can taste the salt of her sweat.

Everything is hot and wet and hard and soft and -

Oliver Queen wakes up.

The room is empty and dark. He’s alone.

He's sweating.

Oliver wipes his forehead and tries not to think of the very explicit dream he just had. Tries not to think about Felicity, soft and naked in his arms. Her mouth on his skin, his mouth on hers. 

Blonde hair, damp with sweat, spread across this pillow.

He lies back down, closes his eyes and wills his body to forget.

It doesn’t work.

She’s a colleague. A partner. She’s his support as the Hood.

She’s not his to fantasise about.

She's his to protect and nothing more.

His mind immediately conjures up a scenario. A nervous Felicity, recently rescued, turning to him for comfort. A hug becomes an embrace, his hand moves from her back to her head, tilting her mouth up to meet his-

No.

Felicity in the club basement, facing off against him, pushing back at his choice of targets. But this time there’s no Diggle there and when she stands up from the chair, her body so close to his, he traps her against the desk with his arms and leans in and -

No.

He loves Laurel.

Laurel.

He tries to think about Laurel. Laurel in her shorts in her apartment. Laurel wrapping her legs around his waist.

But brown hair becomes blonde and suddenly it’s Felicity moaning his name as she rides him.

It’s been months since his one night with Laurel. Months since the undertaking levelled half of the Glades. Months since Tommy-

Oliver shuts down that line of thought and finds himself remembering Felicity bringing cupcakes to the basement last weekend.

Remembers the hickey on her neck.

It was on the back of her neck, as if whoever her partner was had stood behind her and branded himself into her skin.

Bit her neck as he took her from behind.

In his head Felicity is pressed back against him. They’re both on their knees, he’s holding her against him with one hand flat on her abdomen, the other teasing her clit. He bites down on her shoulder as he thrusts into her and she comes moaning his name.

His name.

There were other marks on her skin, marks that show the other side of his oh so pure and innocent IT girl.

Oliver Queen rolls over to bury his face in the pillow and tries hard to wipe all thoughts of Felicity Smoak out of his brain.

It doesn't work.

* * *

The next day she brings chocolate fudge cupcakes to the basement.

Oliver watches her as she teases Diggle. Watches as she laughs at the speed with which he devours one cake and asks for a second.

Felicity laughs, delighted.

She’s wearing a dress today and he wants to go over and push the thick straps of the material aside to see if there are marks on her skin.

What if she only bakes the morning after sex? Who was she with last night? 

Why wasn't it him?

“Oliver,” she calls and he starts. He looks over to see Felicity smiling at him, holding out the box of homemade treats. Diggle stands slightly behind her and has a different smile on his face - one that suggests he’s fully aware of the reason for Oliver’s distraction this morning.

“Do you want one?” She asks, “They have double chocolate fudge icing?”

As if he’s a child to be bought with candy.

All the same, though, that does sound tasty.

Oliver takes half a step towards her then stops himself. She's not the most perceptive of people but she has a way of seeing straight through him and he desperately doesn’t want her to know what he’s thinking.

Felicity lifts a cake to her own lips and takes a bite. 

“They’re really good,” she says, as if trying to tempt a wild animal to feed from her hand. “Might be my best batch ever.”

There's icing on her lip. A smear of chocolate just above the bright lipstick she wears.

He wants to lean in and taste the frosting on her skin.

“No.” 

Felicity looks crestfallen and he realises he spoke out loud.

“I mean,” he says, “not now. Thanks, but not now... I’m full.”

“Yeah,” Diggle says, “Oliver’s full. So I can have his, right?”

“John,” she scolds, turning to mock glare at him.

“Ah Felicity,” Diggle grins, “you’ve got a little...” He gestures at her mouth and Felicity raises her hand to find and wipe the frosting away, licking it off her finger.

“Oops,” she says and grins at him. 

Oliver clenches his hands and thinks about cold water showers and being soaked to the skin by a rainstorm and not eating for three days and any other negative memory he can to shut down his treacherous imagination.

“And no John, you can’t have Oliver’s cupcake.”

“Felicity,” Diggle mock-whines.

“But seeing as you liked the last batch so much,” she says to Diggle, “I brought you some more cakes to take back for Carly and AJ.”

Oliver opens his eyes to see Felicity solemnly present Diggle with another Tupperware box. Diggle laughs and leans in to kiss her on the cheek.

“You are the best Felicity,” Diggle says. “And so long as I keep two for them I can eat the rest?”

“That’s between you and your conscience,” she teases. “Or possibly your dietician. I didn't stint on the butter and sugar. They’re a bit of a heart attack in cake form.”

“But what a way to go,” Diggle says with a grin. He walks over to place the box in his gym bag.

Felicity looks back at Oliver.

“So I'm just going to leave this here for you,” she says. “In case you want it later.”

“Thanks,” he manages. Even to him his voice sounds odd. Strained.

She gives him a look but doesn’t press it.

“So,” he says, clearing his throat, “if we’re all done with snack time, how are you doing decrypting that drive?”

“Slowly,” she says, “so I’ll get back to it.”

She turns her back on him and walks back to the computers.

He looks at the Tupperware box full of temptation she left behind and decides now is a good time to climb the salmon ladder.

* * *

Diggle leaves early, using the cupcakes as an excuse to visit Carly before AJ’s bedtime.

And then there were two.

Felicity works at the computer, occasionally mumbling to herself or humming under her breath. He likes listening to her - she provides comforting background noise - reminds him he’s not alone here.

He dresses in his suit, ready to spend time in his other life upstairs in the club, but first he wants to check on her progress with the drive.

“Anything yet?”

Felicity jumps and spins in the chair to glare up at him.

“Sorry,” he says, “didn't mean to scare you.”

“You didn't scare me,” she says, “I just didn't realise you were still here and not off being James Bond.”

“James Bond,” he says, “really?”

“Well definitely the Craig Bond and not the Connery one. No tie.” She says, then tilts her head at him. “Were you here for that, the blond Bond?”

“Yes,” he says, “Casino Royale predates the island.”

“I get confused,” she says, waving a hand, “it's all timey-wimey.”

“What?”

“Sorry,” she says, “geek reference. I'll have to lend you the DVDs sometime.”

“Okay,” he says, nodding even though he has no idea what she’s saying.

He turns to go and her hand catches his wrist.

“Oliver,” she says, suddenly serious. “Is everything okay? Have I done something to upset you?”

“No,” he says immediately, “everything’s fine. You haven’t done anything.”

“Okay,” she says, but evidently it’s not because she’s hesitating again.

“Spit it out, Felicity,” he says, covering for his own embarrassment at her noticing his reactions by being even more standoffish. 

She winces then sets her jaw.

“Do you not like cake?” She asks, not looking at him. “I won't bring any more in? I'm not trying to force feed you or anything, I just, I felt like baking and I thought you might like...”

“Felicity,” he says, interrupting her rumblings, “I like cake.”

“Just not my cake?”

“I like your cake.”

“How do you know?” She asks, “you haven’t eaten any of it.”

She looks past him to where the Tupperware box with the cake she made for him sits. Just for a second she looks so sad that he can't help himself.

So he cross the room and opens the box and takes a bite of the cake and oh-

Oh.

That is good cake.

Oliver immediately crams the rest of the cake into his mouth, wishing there was more.

Felicity laughs, clapping her hands.

“I didn’t mean you had to eat it now!” She says but she’s clearly delighted that he did.

“That,” he replies, licking his lips, trying to make sure he’s got all of it, “is really good cake.”

“I'll make more,” she smiles.

“Yes,” he says, “please.”

“Oliver,” she says, soft and happy, “you’ve got a little ...”

He reaches up to wipe his mouth but his hand when he brings it down is clean.

“No,” she says, “there.”

And he reaches again but cannot find the rogue bit of frosting.

“Here,” she says, stepping in close to stroke a finger over his cheek, “though how you got it up there...”

She lifts her hand to show him her finger. Chocolate frosting decorates the pad of her index finger and he doesn’t think, just brings it to his lips and licks the icing off.

Felicity freezes and Oliver suddenly realises what he did. This isn’t his head, this is real life.

“As I said,” he says, letting go of her and stepping back, “that’s really good cake. Great icing.”

“Thanks,” she says, but her voice is high pitched.

He steps back, composing himself.

“I'd better go.”

“Yes,” she agrees quickly. Too quickly. “I've got work. The drive.”

“Yes, the drive,” he says. “I'll see you later.”

“Yes,” she says, turning purposely back to her computer, “later.”

Oliver climbs the stairs out of the basement and thinks about chocolate frosting and the taste of Felicity Smoak’s skin.

He has a feeling both will be making an appearance in his dreams tonight.


	3. Red Velvet

There are downsides to being Oliver Queen’s technical Girl Friday. Most of them involve the fact that Diggle can't pull off an evening gown, so every time Oliver needs someone on his arm at an event with the potential for Hood activity she’s the one who has to break out the heels and lipstick.

It’s not that she really minds. Oliver buys her the dresses outright so she's in the process of amassing a wardrobe full of designer evening wear at no cost to herself, and most of the time it's a relatively pain-free evening, the occasional bomb necklace or exploding arrow aside.

Tonight, for example, all three of them are on the job; Oliver and John in tuxes and Felicity in a full length burgundy gown with a super low cut back.

The dress is so long that she was actually able to wear ballet flats under it instead of heels, which is a decision her feet are currently thanking her for.

Tonight was supposed to be a surveil and stalk job on a potentially corrupt deputy mayor, but the man in question hasn't shown yet and Oliver is getting antsy.

Felicity and John on the other hand are passing time by enjoying the mini-cupcakes that are being circulated around the room by waiters who look pretty enough to be model/actors in their other lives. 

“Vanilla and strawberry,” she says softly into the mic, “on your three o’clock.”

Diggle immediately turns and heads in the direction of the tray in question. 

“That’s really more like four o’clock,” he says as he walks.

“Be happy I was within an hour,” Felicity says, using her untouched glass of champagne to block anyone from seeing her lips. “I almost said nine.”

“I'm not impressed with these strawberry ones,” John says, “they’re a little dry.”

“The icing’s nice,” she says.

“But the cake texture, it’s dry,” John says, even as he eats one. “They’re not as good as yours.”

“Is that a hint?” Felicity says, smiling at her partner in crime across the room and purposely avoiding the annoyed looks Oliver keeps shooting in their direction.

“I'm just saying,” John replies, “if you ever wanted to open a bakery I'd be the first in line every day.”

“I think hacking’s a better long term plan in this economy,” Felicity smiles.

“Can you two focus?” Oliver says testily.

“The target’s not here, Oliver,” John says, ever the peacemaker. “We need to wait.”

“We don't need to be distracted.”

“No,” Felicity says, “we need to fit in and be unnoticeable and frankly people are staring to notice the fact that you, Oliver Queen, notorious party boy and despoiler of virgins, are neither drinking nor dancing nor eating cupcakes. People will talk.” She means it to be funny but there’s more than a little truth to her words. Plenty of pretty girls have approached where he stands looking downright delicious in that tux of his.

And he’s turned them all down. 

She spies a few of the girls now, standing with their heads close together and glancing over at Oliver as they talk. They look predatory and for half a second she feels almost sorry for him.

Poor little rich boy that he is.

This all goes through her mind in the half second before Oliver, in his most indignant tone repeats:

“Despoiler of virgins?” 

And then she has John’s chuckles in her ear and she has to take a sip of the champagne she’s not supposed to be drinking to help her muffle her own laughter.

“Seriously,” Oliver says in her ear, “that's how you see me?”

“Nope,” she says happily, “but that’s how they see you.”

She gestures with her wine glass and across the room she sees him turn his head in the direction of the predatory women and then immediately turn his back on them.

“I do not see that ending well,” John remarks, sounding very amused.

“I need a dance partner,” Oliver says and Felicity looks up to see him heading towards her.

“What? No!” She says.

“Felicity,” he growls.

“You do not want to dance with me,” she says, somewhat desperately, “I can't dance.”

“We need to fit in,” he says, using her own logic against her. “You said that I'm drawing attention for the wrong reasons.”

“I will fall,” she says, “I will trip and people will see and they’ll laugh and this is not going to be incognito.”

“You cannot be that bad, Felicity,” John says.

“You dance with him then.”

“At this party, that would raise eyebrows,” Diggle says and she can hear the amused smile in his tone.

“I won’t let you fall Felicity,” Oliver says but he’s getting ever closer and she turns her back on him, hoping he’ll just carry on past her.

But of course that’s not to be.

His hand comes up on the naked skin of her lower back and it is as if his fingertips are electric. She feels her entire body respond to him and she curses herself for her crush and hopes against hope that it's not as obvious as it feels.

He’s standing oh so close and she turns her head and his face is right there and he lifts one of her hands to his mouth and kisses her knuckles and it’s all for show and that doesn't matter.

He’s staring at her with those blue eyes of his and right now she’d do anything he asked and so when he tilts his head in the direction of the dance floor she bites her lip and nods and lets him lead her there.

He’s confident and he’s suave - of course he is, he’s Oliver Queen - and he takes her in his arms on the dance floor and she’s sure her cheeks are red but she follows his lead and they just...

Dance.

After a minute or so she relaxes, the stiffness going out of her rigidly held arms and he pulls her a little closer and her hand slips from his shoulder to rest against the muscles of his chest and it’s nice.

She could close her eyes and be living a dream, but she’s not, she’s working and this isn’t real.

Oliver dances her across the floor, waltzing like a pro.

“You’re really good at this,” she says softly.

“My mother insisted,” he breathes into her ear, and she shivers at the intimacy of it, “I used to escort her to events when my father was busy and she loves to dance.”

He steps quickly, twisting them and she moves with him and lets him dip her slightly.

He lifts her back up and she can't help but laugh, delighted at him.

He smiles at her and for once they’re just Felicity and Oliver, not the IT girl and the vigilante or the employee and the boss’ son.

The music stops and he lets go of her to clap politely at the band and the moment is broken.

She goes to step away but he catches her arm. The band strikes up a new tune - a faster beat - and he spins her back into his embrace, plants one hand on the naked skin on the base of her spine and holds her close and he moves them across the floor to something with a Latin beat.

She's closer to him than ever, one arm is up around his neck and he holds the other hand in his. 

His hand is on her back, sending sparks of electricity through her skin and she doesn't think she’s ever been so aware of him.

His hips brush hers as he turns her and they move together in a rhythm she didn't know she knew and she realises that this is what they might be like in bed. Moving together, in sync, his hands on her skin.

His hand on her back urges her closer and she’s suddenly pressed against him before he spins her to the side, then pulls her back.

She stumbles slightly and falls against him, looking up at him, his arms around her.

“While I appreciate the moves,” John says in her ear - and Oliver’s too - “showing off on the dance floor is not staying under the radar.”

Oliver lets go of her and she steps back. She’s breathing hard and she has to take a second to calm herself.

“Oliver,” John says, “eight o’clock.”

Felicity looks to her left then remembers that eight o’clock for Oliver is to her right. 

She looks but only has half a second to spot one of the predatory women heading her way before Oliver swears and drags her with him into the crowd. 

“What?” She gasps as he pulls her, “Oliver?”

“Rayna Ellen Mitchell,” he says, but she only hears it through the ear piece. He’s pulling her through the crowd at such a pace that it seems like there’re half a dozen people between them.

“Who?”

“Rayna Mitchell,” he repeats, “the scourge of the SCU frat scene.”

“Okay,” she says, as he pulls her away from the actual crowd and behind a pillar, “that doesn't help me.”

“She's an ex,” John says in her ear, “obviously.”

“She’s not an ex,” Oliver says.

“She sounds like an ex,” Felicity admits. “And I'm not sure why we’re hiding from her.”

“I'm not hiding,” he says.

“Whatever,” she says, spying a distraction. “I see cupcakes.”

Felicity snags two red velvet cupcakes from a passing tray. “John,” she says, “incoming red velvet.”

“I’m on it.”

Felicity turns back to Oliver and holds out the cupcakes to him.

He glares at her and makes no move to take one.

“What?” She asks.

“Cupcakes, seriously?”

“What is up with you?” She says.

“You’re eating cake,” he says.

“We’re eating cake,” John says over the radio.

“Right now,” she says, “I'm holding cake, not eating it.”

Oliver glares.

“I'm also hiding behind a pillar,” she points out, “from a woman who you claim is not an ex. I deserve cake. In fact I deserve both of these.”

Felicity lifts her right hand to her mouth and bites into the mini-cupcake. Icing goes everywhere.

Oliver closes his eyes and seems to sigh.

“Felicity...”

“I'm eating cake,” she says.

Oliver refuses to look at her.

“I chose the cake,” she says, “and it is good.”

She eats the rest of the mini-cupcake in one bite and starts to pick bits of frosting off of her skin. 

Oliver looks at her licking icing off her hands and sighs.

“What is it?” He says, “About you and cake?”

“Cake has never let me down,” she says, “you know what you are getting with cake.”

“And what are you getting?” He says, but he steps closer as he says it and the tone of his voice sounds strange to her.

“Sugar,” she says, “flour, eggs, butter. It’s simple.”

“That,” he says, gesturing at the red velvet mini-cupcake in her hands that is at least 50% icing, “doesn’t look simple.”

“It might not look simple,” she says, “but it is. Most cupcakes follow the same recipe. It’s the little things that are different. Little extra bits that make them special.”

Oliver steps in forward, moving in close to her.

“And that’s for me?” He says.

“Yes,” she narrows her eyes, trying to figure him out. “I'm sorry, are we still talking about cake? I’m confused.”

“Cake,” he says and reaches in to catch her wrist. He holds her gaze as he lifts the hand and the cupcake it holds up his mouth and takes a bite.

His lips actually brush the skin of her hand.

“It’s good,” he says, his eyes fixed on hers.

She can't look away.

All of a sudden she remembers the last time she saw him eat cake. That evening when he licked chocolate frosting off of her finger and everything got strange and tense.

Everything is strange and tense now.

“Do you ever make this type of cake?” He asks and she stares at him.

“Do you?” He prompts her.

“Sometimes,” she says. He’s standing so close and she’s so aware of him.

“Why do you bake?”

“I... Like it.”

“But why?”

“I just like it,” she says, and suddenly Oliver’s eyes move up and past her and she sees him sigh in relief and step back.

And the moment is over.

What was that?

She risks a glance over her shoulder and sees Diggle approaching. There’s no sign of the woman Oliver was trying to hide from, but John has an intent look on his face.

“Oliver, Felicity,” John says, “we’re on. Clemens just arrived.”

Immediately Oliver is alert. Professionally dangerous. 

He looks at her and she can see he’s seeing her purely as a resource. 

Not a girl to dance with or the woman he just ate cake out of the hand of.

She looks down at her hand and yes, there’s half a cupcake. So that completely out of character moment really did happen.

She feels flummoxed. 

“Felicity,” Oliver says, “I need that bug.”

And then she’s searching through her bag but she can't do that and hold the cake so she lifts the remains to her mouth and swallows it.

“Here,” she says through a full mouth, as she finds the bug in question and hands it to him. 

Oliver stares at her for a minute and then he's gone, pushing through the crowd in search of his target.

The plan was that she was supposed to go with him, but he just left her here.

She doesn't know what to do with it.

So she wipes her hands on a napkin, takes a deep breath and follows him.

At the very least she’ll see if she can snag another cupcake. If Oliver Queen is going to blow so hot and cold at her, she needs to knows there’s something she can rely on. 

And she has always been able to rely on cake. 


	4. Coffee

He can't help himself, he has to know.

“Why do you bake?

Felicity stares up at him. She seems small and delicate this evening - he hadn’t understand why until he heard Diggle teasing her about not wearing heels. He’s used to her being three inches taller in formal wear. Seeing her in her (hidden) flats is disconcerting.

“I... like it.” She’s obviously confused. Disconcerted. He’s standing too close and he just ate cake out of her hand and he can’t help himself.

He really shouldn't have danced with her. It had seemed like the perfect cover but once he had her in his arms he just couldn't seem to let go of her. His hand on her back ached to slip under the fabric of her dress and stroke her skin.

But there was a moment there - there were several moments there - where he could see she wanted him too.

Which might be why he just ate cake out of her hand.

They’ve just executed a strategic withdrawal from the dance floor (he refuses to call it hiding behind a pillar) in order to avoid the woman Tommy once described as a paternity suit waiting to happen. Rayna had been a recurring factor in his college days - but he’d always been careful. She’d had her sights set on trophy wife status since they were all freshman and after watching her make her way through Tommy and several other members of their little group (Tommy had named it the billionaire’s boys club on one particular debached evening), he’d known enough to keep his distance. Mostly. 

There were plenty of reasons not to introduce Rayna to Felicity. Not least because he didn't relish the idea of Felicity seeing that part of his past first hand. But also because Rayna was and always would be a bitch and he just knew she’d say something to upset his blonde IT girl.

And he doesn't want her upset.

But he does want to know about the baking. 

“But why?”

“I just like it,” she says. Which is undoubtedly accurate but doesn't answer his larger (unspoken) question. 

Do you only bake the mornings after sex?

The words are on the tip of his tongue when movement in his peripheral vision catches his eye and he looks up to see Diggle signal.

“Oliver, Felicity,” Diggle says, “we’re on. Clemens just arrived.”

Right. The mission.

David Clemens, the deputy mayor that Oliver is sure has his hand in the till over at City Hall. Failing the city from inside its very heart.

He sees his chance; Clemens is making the rounds, but in the direction of the bar. If he can beat him there he can make an introduction and hopefully secure the bug somewhere unnoticable.

“Felicity,” Oliver says, “I need that bug.”

Felicity fusses with her bag and he’s about to click his fingers in impatience when he sees the problem. She only has one hand free, the other is occupied with the remaining half of his cake.

He goes to reach for it, for her, but she beats him to it, raising her hand to her mouth and taking what’s left of the cake in her mouth in an unladylike manner.

He sees her chew, cream cheese icing and red flecks of cake sponge around her lips and thinks about his mouth was just around the other half of that and how much he wants to kiss the remnants off her mouth.

She looks up at him and grins around the cake in her mouth.

“Here,” she says holding the bug out to him.

Right. The mission. The bug.

Oliver snatches the tiny device out of her fingers and turns away, pushing away from temptation through the crowd. 

He has to get to the bar before Clemens. And he has to get away from Felicity before he does something stupid.

He passes Diggle who gives him a ’you’re being an idiot’ look out of the corner of his eye.

“I'm going to try and tag him at the bar,” Oliver mutters for the radio and Diggle glances at the bar then nods.

“Okay,” Diggle agrees, “I'll flank you.”

“Agreed,” Oliver says, “Felicity you hold back unless I need you. Take a seat further up the bar.”

There's an annoyed and inaudible mutter on the line, then:

“Acknowledged.”

Oliver reaches the bar and signals for the bartender’s attention. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Diggle take up a spot to his left and quick look around has Felicity about six feet behind him, settling herself onto a bar stool.

Now all they have to do is wait.

“Cupcake?”

Oliver blinks, but the voice isn’t talking to him. It’s over the radio.

“Thanks,” Felicity says brightly. “I haven’t tried these ones yet. What are they?”

“Coffee, I think.”

“That’s really nice of you,” she says, “thanks.”

“So what’s a nice girl like you doing dancing with Oliver Queen?”

“Excuse me?” Felicity says.

“I said,” says the man who’s hitting on her, “what’s a nice girl like you-”

“Oh,” Felicity says, “no, I didn't mean that I didn't hear you. I heard you, and thanks for the cupcake but no thanks for anything else.”

“Why not? I brought you cake.”

Oliver hears Felicity laugh, half-incredulous, half-surprised.

“And thanks for the cake, but I'm not looking for company,” she says, pleasant but firm.

“How about another dance partner?”

“I don't dance.”

“I just saw you dance. Very impressively, I might add.”

“That was... different.” 

“Oliver,” Diggle says over comms, “six feet.”

Oliver’s attention snaps back to the crowd in front of him. Clemens is almost within reach. He purposely turns back to the bar and tries to see the man bothering Felicity in the mirrors. He can make out dark hair and white tuxedo jacket but the man’s face is hidden. All the same he doesn’t like it - he might need Felicity to be free at a moment’s notice and if this guy keeps bothering her she won't be.

“How is it different?” Felicity’s suitor says, “are you one of those girls who only dances with millionaires?” 

“Billionaires actually,” Felicity says lightly, “and I'm not looking for another dance tonight so thanks but no thanks.”

“So it’s all about the size of my wallet?”

“Not at all. Oliver’s a friend a mine.”

“Oliver, is it?” And he can hear the tone of voice turn nasty. “Listen sweetheart, just because a player like Oliver Queen takes you for a turn doesn’t make you too good for the rest of us.”

Oliver hears Felicity’s sudden intake of breath and he sets his jaw, ready to intervene when suddenly Clemens is right there beside him.

“Oliver Queen, right?” Clemens says, offering him a hand.

“Please take your hand off my leg,” Felicity says and all lightness and laughter has left her tone. Her voice is flat, almost angry. 

Oliver feels his entire body tense. Including the hand he has wrapped around Clemens’.

“Ow,” the possibly corrupt deputy mayor winces, pulling back. “That’s a helluva grip.” 

“Sorry,” Oliver apologises, but all of his attention is on the conversation happening in his ear and six feet behind him and not the man in front of him.

“I was hoping to meet you here,” Clemens says, “I was a great admirer of your father’s.”

“Thank you,” Oliver says.

“I’m warning you buddy,” Felicity says, “move it or lose it.”

“I think you should make me.”

Oliver tenses, about to turn, and then he hears Diggle.

“Is there a problem here?”

“No problem at all,” Felicity says sweetly, “he was just leaving.”

“I'm not going anywhere,” the man says. 

“Robert Queen was a huge part of the Starling City political scene,” Clemens says and Oliver nods absently.

“Take your hands off of the lady,” Diggle says, the menace evident in his tone.

“She doesn’t want me to.”

“I assure you I do,” Felicity says, “now I'm asking you for the third time to let go of me.”

“I wonder,” Clemens says, “if you've ever thought of continuing that legacy. For the right candidate of course.”

“Aw baby,” the guy says, “don't be like that.”

And then suddenly the crowd at the bar is moving.

Oliver’s instincts anticipated it, stepping sideways so the worst of it missed him and pulling Clemens with him. 

His instincts are evidently having a good day, because the hand he used to move Clemens back and away from Felicity’s would-be suitor was the hand with the bug in it and it’s a simple enough matter to slip the mechanism under Clemens’ collar as he steadies the man.

Clemens looks down at the man sprawled on the floor and clutching his nose and whistles through his teeth.

Blood is already dripping from the man’s nose as he stumbles to his feet swearing loudly. He’s angry and in pain and looking for someone to lash out at.

But Diggle is there, fronting him down.

“She hit me!” The man says, his words slightly muffled by his obviously broken nose. “I want her arrested.”

“She asked you stop touching her three times,” Diggle says, cold as ice, “and then you tried to kiss her.”

“She hit me!”

“You tried to assault her. I wonder whose side the police will take.”

“Bitch,” the man spits and Oliver looks past Diggle to see Felicity still sitting on her stool. Her expression is fixed - almost shocked. Her eyes meet his then drop to stare at her hands.

“I can’t believe I did that” she says, so softly that only he and Diggle could possibly hear her.

“I want an apology,” the bleeding man demands.

Felicity’s head snaps up and she looks conflicted.

”I’m-” she starts to say but Diggle shushes her with a hand gesture.

“She’s got nothing to apologise for,” Diggle says in full on elder-brother defender-of-women mode, “unlike you.”

“I didn't do anything!”

Diggle just stares at him. Oliver has the impression Diggle could just stand there between Felicity and this man all night. An immovable human wall of righteousness.

“I think you’ve had enough,” Clemens says, surprising Oliver. He hooks an arm around the man and ushers him away from Diggle. Oliver watches them go, Clemens nodding to him before the crowd blocks him from sight. “I’ll get my office to call you.”

The “victim” having left the surrounding crowd turns to Felicity, sitting alone on her stool and immediately the whispers and sideways looks start.

Diggle rolls his eyes. Felicity sets her jaw.

Oliver takes a step towards them and Diggle catches his eye and minutely shakes his head.

“Did you plant the bug?” He hears Felicity say in a small voice over the radio.

“Yes.”

“Then let’s go.” Her voice sounds tired and cold and so unlike his Felicity. It tugs at his heart to hear it.

“I'm taking her to the car,” Diggle says, “follow us in five minutes.”

Diggle offers Felicity an arm and she takes it.

The coffee cupcake is left untouched on the bar.

Oliver looks at it and considers following Clemens, breaking a few more bones of Felicity’s would-be attacker. 

That man put his hands on her.

And he, Oliver, did nothing.

It gnaws at him.

He hates that he puts the mission before her safety. Even if, in the end, she didn't need him.

He still hates it.

“Ollie,” he hears right beside his ear. A voice too close for comfort but not close enough for radio.

And he knows it.

So he plasters a smile on his face and turns to greet her.

“Rayna, it’s been a long time.”

“Too long,” she says and her hand comes up to play with the buttons on his shirt as she smiles insipidly.

At least Rayna is dull enough that she doesn’t notice his eyes following Felicity and Diggle out of the room.

He smiles and banters but his heart is not in it. Instead he’s counts down the seconds until he can make a discreet withdrawal.

After five of the longest minutes of his life his phone beeps and Oliver uses the excuse to slip into the lobby.

It’s a text from Felicity.

_bring cupcakes_

And so he flags down a waiter and offers him fifty dollars for the tray. 

But he makes sure there’s no coffee ones included.


	5. Lemon-lime

“The carrot cake has the best base,” Felicity crows, “But I like the frosting better on the lemon-lime ones. It’s zingy.”

She’s sitting on her desk in the basement of the club while the computer behind her plays the audio from the bug on Clemens. So far all they’ve heard is small talk and glad handing. Nothing untoward at all.

She’s also swigging from a bottle of beer and as all she’s had to eat all night is cupcakes, the liquor appears to have made her slightly lightheaded. Her long formal dress is hitched up slightly and she’s swinging her bare feet idly, her shoes abandoned on the floor.

“You don't think the lemon is too bitter?” Diggle asks. He’s sitting slightly slumped on a stool, his bow tie loose around his neck and his jacket long since discarded.

“I like that it’s sour, it's refreshing after all that sweetness.” Felicity says. “Oliver, what do you think?”

He’s mostly been on the outside of this conversation looking in. But that’s suited him. It’s given him a chance to watch her - see how she shifted emotionally from a little shocked by her own capability for violence, to nervous about consequences, and then finally, cake in one hand and beer in the other, a little proud of how she handled it.

He still feels a little guilty that he put her in a position where she had to defend herself. Even if it was against an easily taken care of drunken lech.

“Leave him be,” Diggle says, “he’s brooding.”

Oliver glares at Diggle.

“Is this because you didn't get to shoot anyone with an arrow tonight?” Felicity teases.

“I'm not brooding,” he says, “I'm just surprised we haven’t heard anything incriminating on Clemens yet.”

“Maybe he’s not dirty,” Diggle says. “There has to be one honest politician in Starling City.”

“Maybe,” Oliver agrees but he’s not convinced. “But I don't think it’s this one. I’m going to keep listening.”

“The computer can auto-transcribe,” Felicity says, “we don't need to be here.”

“I've got some stuff to do.”

“What?” She challenges him, “what do you have to do?”

His mind goes blank. He doesn't have an answer.

“Ha!” She cries triumphantly. “I knew it.”

“I’m too amped up to sleep right now,” he admits, trying to regain control of the conversation, “thought I might get in some target practice.”

“Well I for one am going home,” Diggle says, draining the last of his bottle.

“Are you alright to drive?” Felicity asks.

“I'm fine,” Diggle reassures her. “Want a ride?”

Felicity looks from Diggle to Oliver and smiles. It’s a new type on smile of her face, one he hasn't seen before.

“No,” she says, “I'll stick around for a while. Oliver will drop me off later, right?”

“Sure,” he agrees promptly, despite his surprise. Just five minutes ago she’d been talking about how tired she is. Now she wants to stay?

Diggle sends a penetrating look her way. She raises an eyebrow back at him.

“Alright,” Diggle says and stands. “But I’m taking provisions for the journey.” He crosses to the cupcake tray and folds two of the small cakes into a napkin. 

“I thought you said my cakes were better?”

“Better but not here,” he says, “I can't tell Carly I spent the night eating cake and didn't bring her any.”

“Say ’hi’ from me,” she says.

“Will do.” Diggle picks up his jacket and his cakes. He nods a goodbye at Oliver and heads for the exit.

Felicity watches him go and swings her feet.

Oliver tilts his head at her, waiting.

He hears the door close behind Diggle and Felicity turns to him, smiling.

“Are you okay?” He asks. “I thought you said you were tired. That you wanted to go home.”

“Oliver,” Felicity says, jumping down from the desk, “I think we need to talk.”

It's a measure of how far he’s come in five years that those words don't send him running for the exit.

“Talk?”

“Talk.”

“About what?”

She looks up at him, all big eyes and soft smile.

“You know about what,” she says. “Tonight.”

“I know it’s bothering you,” he says, “but you did the right thing. That guy was a creep and you gave him fair warning.”

“Not about that,” she says, “about before.”

“Before?”

“Dancing?” She prompts him. “That moment where you ate out of my hand and we had a whole coded conversation about cake.”

“It's nothing,” he says.

“It didn't feel like nothing.”

She takes a step towards him and then tentatively lays a hand on his arm.

He looks down at her hand, then up at her.

“Felicity,” he says.

“Is this something?” She asks softly. “Is there something here?”

“You’re drunk,” he says.

“I've had two beers,” she smiles, “and six cupcakes. Sugar high is far more likely than drunk.”

He feels frozen under her touch. He watches, almost helplessly as her hand comes up to cup his cheek.

“Oliver,” she says, “this is something, right?”

“It's something,” he confirms, “I just don't know what.”

“Do we have to put a label on it?” She says and goes up on her toes, lifting her mouth to his and slowly, gently, as if she's expecting him to push her away at any second, kisses him.

His arms come up around her tiny waist, holding her loosely.

She pulls back and looks at him and it's like a dam has broken, suddenly he’s kissing her, wrapping her tightly in his embrace, his hand coming down on the naked skin of her back.

She moans at his touch and he feels himself react.

And he’s walking her backwards, back to the desk she sat on all night and lifting her up, pushing her dress up to stand between her legs and kiss her.

Her palms are flat on his back, urging him closer to her and his hand slides up her leg, pushing under the bunched up material to grasp her thigh.

Her head falls back and he moves his mouth to her neck and she’s moaning and squirming and he wants more.

The neckline of her dress is halter and he has access to her shoulders but not her chest. He pulls at the material but it’s too fitted.

She laughs and raises her own hands up, undoing something behind her neck and the cloth comes loose in his hands. Her fingers move to his shirt, unfastening buttons and pushing the material back down his arms.

She catches her breath at the sight of him and then her mouth is on his collar bone while one of his hands strokes over her left breast and the other moves up her leg to slip inside her underwear.

Her legs come up around his waist and her dress is bunched up so high he can actually feel the naked skin of her abdomen against his.

He strokes over her clit then slips a finger inside her, then two, and she lets her head fall against his chest and she gasps his name and it’s not enough, it's not enough.

“Felicity,” he gasps, “I-”

“I want you,” she says, “I need you, Oliver, please.”

And she puts her hands down to the table edge and lifts her hips and he steps back and runs his hands up her legs and pulls off her panties.

And he looks at her, in the remains of her dress, her pupils blown, her lipstick smeared.

She smiles and he smiles back.

And then they’re kissing.

Her hands fumble at his belt and he drops his down to help her and then his pants are off and her hands are on him, and her legs are around his waist.

And he slides into her -

And he wakes up.

Alone.

Hard.

Panting in his room at the mansion. 

Oliver flops back in bed and remembers; Felicity accepted Diggle’s offer of a ride home. She didn't stay. They didn't talk.

She didn't kiss him.

They didn’t -

It’s all in his head.

He hates his head.

* * *

He wakes to a text message from Felicity.

_still nothing on the Clemens bug_

It’s almost noon and the house is silent around him. It’s a Wednesday and everyone in the house has somewhere to be other than him - school, an office. 

His official work day doesn’t start for hours.

He looks at his phone, at her text, and realises that she left the basement sometime around two, and is now probably at work, and has been since eight.

He might get to sleep in but she doesn’t.

He suddenly feels guilty for dragging her into this crusade of his - taking her sleep and her time and putting her in situations where she has to defend herself.

Diggle had already mentioned that he’s planning on stepping up Felicity’s self defence training the previous evening, but that doesn't make Oliver feel any better.

He pulled her into this.

He needs to do something to show her how much it means to him that she stays.

And also to remind his unconscious mind that she’s a friend - a platonic friend - and not fantasy fodder.

He flashes back for a second to the dream that woke him this morning. Felicity on the desk, smiling and reaching for him. The flush on her skin. The taste of her mouth.

Oliver shakes the dream out of his mind and heads for the shower. Might as well face the day as cleanly as he can.


	6. Toffee caramel

Felicity sits on the barstool and sips her red wine. It's not a great vintage or a particularly nice bottle but it's drinkable and it's cheap and that's all she's looking for right now.

Last night has been weighing on her all day.

Her head is full of thoughts. Too full. Overflowing almost. Last night she danced with Oliver and broke a man’s nose.

Neither of these things could be called typical behavior for her.

In the cold light of day - or even the diminished illumination of this bar - she can't decide which one bothers her more.

The punch or the dance.

Because that wasn't just a dance. That was a _dance_.

That was his hand on her back and his arms around her and his hips so close to hers.

He dipped her for God’s sake. He dipped her.

And he spun her and she fell against his chest and there was a moment there, right? There was a moment.

And she doesn't see how she’s supposed to carry on as if nothing happened (even though, as her traitorous brain reminds her, nothing did happen) and be normal around him if he’s going to do stuff like that.

She knows she has a crush. She works around it.

Even Oliver works around it, ignoring the things she says when she’s not thinking and how flustered she can be. He’s always been carefully respectful. He’s never seemed to laugh at her.

She drains the rest of the wine in her glass and is about to pay the bill and leave when -

“Can I buy you a drink?”

She turns to see a not unattractive man with floppy blond hair sitting next to her.

“I really should go,” she says. But she doesn’t move from her stool. 

“But you won't,” he smiles, “because you’ve had a bad day and one glass of wine isn't enough to deal with a bad day.”

“How do you know I’ve had a bad day?”

“Your brow’s all furrowed,” he says, gesturing at her forehead, “lots of little lines.”

“And wine will help?”

“Wine. And pleasant conversation.”

She raises an eyebrow at him and he grins.

“I’ll take the wine,” she says, and he grins and gesture at the bartender who leans in to refill her glass. 

“And the conversation?”

“We’ll see.”

And she chinks glasses with him and she smiles and she lets herself not think about Oliver for a while.

But is quickly becomes clear that even if she wasn't planning on going to Verdant soon, she wouldn’t be going home with Andy, as the blond introduces himself. He’s harmless but he’s...

Thin.

There’s no emotional weight to him. No intellectual depth. He’s all surface and appearance. He has nothing to say.

But he’s still harmless.

And she’s happy enough to flirt a little and drink another glass of wine.

She should be at the foundry by now. She should be sorting though the Clemens tapes, but she already knows they’re mostly innocent from the emails the auto-transcription app sent her throughout the day.

She should be sitting at her desk watching Oliver and Diggle train, running research and reviewing data.

She should -

Andy offers her a third glass of wine and she smiles at him.

“I really shouldn't,” she says, “I don't want to lead you on and I have somewhere else to be in an hour,” she says.

“This doesn't have to be anything,” Andy says, “so might as well let me keep you company until then.”

“Okay,” she agrees, “but these drinks are on me,” and she signals the bartender for a refill.

* * *

She doesn’t pick up the phone when he calls her.

So he calls Diggle.

“Can I talk to Felicity?”

“She’s not here, Oliver,” Diggle says, his voice tinny over the blue-tooth earpiece Oliver wears inside his motorcycle helmet.

“What?”

“She’s not here.”

“Where is she?”

“I don't know,” Diggle says, “she texted to say she’d be late tonight.”

Oliver turns that over in his mind.

Felicity’s late.

But she’s never late. Most nights she arrives at the club before all of his official employees.

She’s diligent and determined and always there.

“Don't do it,” Diggle says in his ear.

“Don't do what?”

“Whatever it is you’re thinking of doing,” Diggle says reasonably. “She was in a situation last night, that’s true, but she handled it. She won’t thank you for checking up on her today.”

“I’m not.”

“Good,” Diggle says.

Oliver stays silent.

Diggle sighs.

“You’re going to go anyway, aren’t you?”

Oliver sets his jaw.

“I just need to know she's alright.”

“What makes today different from any other day?” Diggle sighs, but Oliver ignores him.

He tries not to think of his dreams, but flashes back to the imaginary images anyway. Her mouth. Her hair. Her skin. Her skin against his lips as he ate cake out of her hand.

“Oliver,” Diggle warns.

“I’ll be discrete,” Oliver says and pulls the bike over to the side of the road, ending the phone call and pulling up the GPS tracking app she built for him and sets it to find her phone. 

He’s expecting the ping back to come from the Queen Consolidated offices. Or maybe her apartment.

But when his phone connects to hers it’s at neither location.

It’s a bar on Lincoln.

A bar within a block of him.

He looks at the map and makes a decision.

He just wants to know she's okay.

That’s all.

It has nothing to do with the fact that the bar she’s sitting in is a notorious pick-up joint.

He stows the bike in a nearby alley and leaves his helmet with it. He’s going for casual and unnoticeable, or as unnoticeable as Oliver Queen ever is, and helmets make bouncers nervous. 

She’s not visible through the window so he slips in and tries to stay anonymous in the crowd.

She’s around the corner, sitting at the bar drinking a glass of red wine.

And talking to someone.

A blond man.

Oliver goes to step forward and then he sees Felicity laugh.

The stranger’s body, already turned towards her, leans in to point out something behind the bar and she laughs again. 

She looks happy.

With him.

Oliver thinks about Felicity the first morning she brought cake to the basement. Thinks about the spring in her step and the marks on her skin.

Thinks about this man pressing her into a wall, her legs wrapped around his waist.

He’s had so many dreams these past weeks he can easily imagine the flush on her skin when she’s aroused. He thinks about the soft gasp she let out involuntarily when he dipped her on the dance floor last night. Thinks about the delighted sound of her laughter, real and pure.

He wants to know the sounds she’ll make when he touches her.

And he doesn’t want this stranger to learn any of it.

He wants to walk across the room, tilt her face up to his and kiss her. 

He wants to apologise for being late and have her turn that marvellous smile of hers to him.

He wants to slip his arm around her waist and feel her fit so well into his embrace.

He wants all of it.

All of her.

But if he walks across the room now he won’t get it.

She’ll be upset he tracked her, annoyed he didn’t trust her. She’ll miss the jealousy in favour of the ownership and she’ll push him away.

He needs another way.

And then it hits him.

* * *

She feels happy as she makes her way to Verdant in a taxi. It’s not like she feels drunk, but why risk it? Andy was good company or an hour or two but no more. She has reassured herself she could turn a man down without it becoming a boxing match, and as irrational as it was to worry about that, she feels better all the same.

The basement is silent as she walks down the stairs.

There are cupcakes waiting for her on the desk. A box from one of the most expensive bakeries in the city.

A pack of four, finely baked and exquisitely decorated. Each cake looks to be a different flavor - vanilla, chocolate, red velvet and some kind of warm brown shade. Cinnamon? Toffee? She’s not sure.

There’s no note and neither of the men are in sight but she knows these are from Oliver.

But what do they mean?

Is this an apology? An ’I’m thinking of you’ gift? A ’sorry you had to break a guy’s nose’ present? Maybe a ’congratulations on breaking a guy’s nose’ token?

Or are they just cakes? 

“Do you like them?”

Felicity turns to see Oliver, looking sharp in a well-fitted shirt (because why would the universe take pity on her crush), hovering nearby.

“They look amazing,” she says. “I’ve never tried this bakery. What’s the occasion?” She’s proud of herself, her voice doesn’t waver.

“No occasion,” he shrugs.

“No?”

“No,” he pauses, “is there usually an occasion when you eat cupcakes?”

“I eat cupcakes whenever I can,” she says, “but I mostly bake them when I’m happy.”

He steps in closer to her.

“And are you?” He says, “Are you happy, Felicity?” He says and he’s stepping ever closer and there’s a strange look on his face. 

“I’m okay,” she says. “Why do you ask?”

“You should be happy,” he says.

“Everyone should be happy,” she says, “but it's not always that simple.” She looks at him, standing so close in front of her. “Are you happy?”

He tilts his head, considering.

“I don't know,” he admits.

“It's not an easy question,” she says, “is it?”

He doesn’t say anything.

“Thank you,” she says, “for the cakes.”

“You’re welcome,” he says.

She opens the lid to get a better look at them.

“What flavors are they?”

“I, er, I didn't ask,” he admits, “I just asked for the four best.”

“Well that won’t do,” she says, “we need to try these, so we can decide which is best.”

She lifts the brown cake in her hands and takes a moment to marvel at the icing. The piped icing is striped - not two different icing bags but a bag which appears to be been half chocolate and half something else. That’s tricky enough to do but there’s also tiny chocolate and caramel chips tucked into the icing swirls. It’s almost too pretty to eat.

“It’s pretty impressive,” she says, “the decoration I mean. I’ve never tried to do anything this complex.”

“Oh,” Oliver says, politely.

“You saw my cakes,” she says, “simple, easy. This is like a painting. It’s art.”

“I'm sure yours taste better,” he says.

“If they do I think you should ask for your money back,” she says and peels down the paper on one side of the cake and offers it to him.

His hand comes up, but rather than lift the confection out of her hands, he holds her wrist steady and leans down to take a bite.

“What are you doing?” She says, almost before she thinks it. The wine is in her head. Or is it just his proximity?

“I'm trying the cake,” he says, his mouth full of icing and sponge.

And grins at her

And he looks so adorable she can’t help but laugh.

And he grins even wider.

“You should try it,” he says.

His hand hasn’t let go of her wrist, and he gently pushes her hand to her own mouth, holding her gaze the whole way. 

She lets him lift the cake high enough for her to bite it and flavors explode in her mouth. 

She can’t help it; she moans.

She inwardly cringes, embarrassed at herself, but then his eyes meet hers, darker than she’s ever seen them.

“You like?”

“It’s amazing,” she says.

“Felicity.”

His voice is low and she feels things tighten in her abdomen and she doesn’t know what’s happening - or she knows and she still can’t believe it.

And time seems to slow down as she looks up at him and he leans in, dropping his lips to hers.

He tastes like icing.


	7. Triple chocolate fudge

He kisses her gently. He’s not pushy or demanding. He’s not plundering her mouth or grinding against her.

One of his hands cups her cheek, the other has hold of her wrist. His lips against hers are soft, teasing.

He pulls back and she knows she’s staring up at him in complete shock.

“I like that one,” he says, “but what about the chocolate?”

He lifts the toffee caramel cupcake out of her hand, puts it back in the box and holds up the chocolate cupcake instead.

It’s a triple chocolate masterpiece, three different types of chocolate icing swirled together over chocolate sponge.

He holds it up to her.

His other hand has dropped to her waist now, his fingers lightly play over the material of her cardigan. She swears she can feel the heat of them on her skin through two layers of material.

“Oliver?” She asks, and he shushes her.

“Try it,” he says, holding the cake out to her, his tone full of meaning.

There's so much on offer right now and she wants all of it but she’s so scared that despite that kiss this isn’t what it looks like.

She licks her lips.

“Am I going to like it?” She asks, through a dry mouth.

“I hope so,” he says, “I’m sure I will.”

She bites her lip and looks at him.

“Try it,” he says, “try it with me.”

And she can see something there in his eyes, something deeper and meaningful.

So she brings one hand up to rest lightly on his chest and the other to ghost her fingertips along the hand offering her the cake, and she leans in and takes a bite, keeping her eyes locked on his the whole way.

She feels icing smear across her lips and she tastes all the chocolate in the world and she swallows down the cake and then he’s there, kissing the frosting off her skin, his mouth becoming more demanding.

He puts the cake down and brings both hands to her waist and lifts her - he lifts her just like she always dreamed he would - and her arms are around his neck and it’s the easiest thing in the world to bring her legs up around his waist and then he’s pressing her back into a concrete pillar.

His mouth moves to her neck and she gasps.

His hands are running over her clothing and his body is grinding against her, and suddenly she’s scared that this is just a moment and so her hand comes up and grabs him by his short hair, pulling his head back so she can see his face.

“Oliver?”

He blinks at her and moves in for a kiss. She tightens her grip in his hair and he stops, waits.

“What are you doing?” She says, breathless, “What are we doing?”

“I’m kissing you.”

“But,” she says, and she bites her lip and she sees his eyes follow the movement, feels his body react against her. “Is this real?” She asks, “or is this some kind of sex pollen thing?”

His eyebrows go up.

“Sex pollen?”

“Sex pollen.”

“I know I was away for a while,” he says, a smile playing on his lips, “but did someone really invent sex pollen while I was on the island?”

“It's not a real thing,” she says, “it's a metaphor.”

“Just checking,” he says, dropping his head back down to nip at her neck.

“Oliver,” she says, “focus.” She pulls at his hair and he raises his head again. “Why are you kissing me?”

“Why are you kissing me?”

“I asked you first.”

He grins, and she resists the urge to just kiss him and let all this go. But she has to know. If this is a one time deal, a momentary thing, she has to know. Because she’s not sure she can stand it if she sleeps with Oliver Queen, the literal man of her dreams, and then he walks away.

“Oliver,” she says and he must hear something in her tone because he stops smiling. “Seriously, what is this?”

“This is us,” he says. His brow furrows. “Don't you want this?”

“Of course I want this,” she says and the look of relief on his face is breathtaking. “I’ve wanted this since I met you but I never thought I’d get this.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re you and I’m not.”

“You’re not me?”

“I'm not your type,” she says, simply.

Oliver stares at her.

“Are you joking?”

“No,” she sighs. She feels his hands let go of her legs and she realises he’s about to put her down, that her rational words have pierced the bubble of whatever this was and now it's over.

She can feel the prickle of tears behind her eyes and she clamps down on her emotions harshly.

She will not cry in front of him.

She won’t.

She feels her legs slip from around his waist. Prepares to climb down off him.

And his hands come up to cup her face and so the only thing that’s holding her up is his body pressing her against the pillar.

“Felicity,” he breathes, his thumbs stroking her cheekbones. “You are by far the smartest person I’ve ever met, but that was the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

Her heart leaps.

“You’re beautiful and you’re amazing, and I want you,” he says. 

Her breath catches in her throat.

“Really?”

“Really.”

He pulls back slightly so she slips down until her feet land on the ground.

“Unless, of course,” he says, “you don't want me.”

He drops his hands but he doesn’t step back. He just stands there, so close but not touching, waiting for her to make a choice.

“Oliver,” she says and it’s her turn to lift a hand to stroke his face. “Is this real?”

“I think so,” he says.

“Okay then,” she says and goes up on her toes to kiss him.

His hands are on her face, in her hair, running over her skin, lifting her leg up over his hip.

His hands are everywhere and his lips are on her skin and this is better than she ever thought it would be.

She moans against his mouth and she can feel the smile on his lips.

She closes her eyes and lets her head fall back and just experiences his touch. Luxuriates in it. Revels in him.

Off to the side, Diggle clears his throat.

Felicity’s eyes fly open and she turns her head to see a very amused Diggle standing there watching them.

She’s blushing. She knows it. 

She’s mortified.

Oliver is completely unbothered. He hasn't even paused.

“Digg,” he says between kisses on her neck. “Go away.”

“Oliver,” Diggle greets, “Felicity.”

“Oh my God,” she mumbles, pushing at Oliver’s shoulders.

To his credit he immediately stops and quirks an eyebrow at her.

“What?”

“Not in front of Diggle!” She squeaks. Literally squeaks. This is what kissing Oliver Queen does to her. Turns her into Minnie Mouse.

“He’s seen worse.”

“I have,” Diggle agrees.

“See?” Oliver grins and leans back in to kiss her.

She slams a hand against his chest and slips out of his arms, rushing over to her computer, feeling her cheeks burn with embarrassment.

“About damn time,” Diggle says to Oliver.

Out of the corner of her eye she sees Oliver shrug and grin.

“You gonna treat her right?” Diggle says. “Or do I have to come out with a speech about kneecaps and my shotgun?”

“Digg.”

“Do not test me Oliver Queen,” Diggle warns with good-natured menace in his voice. 

“I'm fine, John,” she says.

“I know you’re fine,” Diggle says, “but if he hurts you...”

“I’m a big girl,” she says, “I can fight my own battles.”

Diggle turns and smiles at her. He reaches out and squeezes her shoulder.

“I know you can,” he says, “but you’ve never had a big brother and this is what we do.” He looks back to Oliver. “Right?”

“Right,” Oliver agrees. 

“You hurt her and your kneecaps are mine,” Diggle says, then looks back to Felicity, “and if you hurt him I’ll put shaving foam through the cooling vents on every computer you own.”

Felicity can’t hide her emotional reaction to that and Diggle laughs.

“You two deserve each other,” he says. “I’ll give you your privacy.”

Felicity sits down at her desk and wakes her network up from standby.

“Anything new on the Clemens tap?” She asks.

“Nothing that can’t wait until tomorrow,” Oliver says, stepping up to stand behind her.

“Do you need me to get into his system?”

“Not right now.”

His hands come down on her shoulders, the same gesture as Diggle made moments before but with such a different meaning.

“What about his financials?” She says, keeping her voice as steady as she can, which she thinks is impressive considering that he’s touching her.

“Felicity,” he whispers, and then there are lips on her neck.

“Oliver?”

“Come home with me.”

“Oliver...”

“Come home with me, Felicity.”

Her eyes are closed and her skin is on fire and her breath is coming quicker and quicker and you know what?

Why not?

“Okay,” she says, “but my place is closer.”

“Fine,” he replies, “I'll get the cupcakes.”


	8. Better than cake

She drives them home in her car and neither of them say a word for the entire journey.

She really can't believe she’s doing this, can’t believe this is happening. She keeps having to sneak glances at him to make sure he's still there. 

And he is.

She parks the car around the corner from her building and after she turns the engine off they just sit and stare at each other for a moment.

He’s smiling at her, looking confident, maybe even a little smug.

Which is incredibly unfair because she’s never felt less sure of herself in her life.

Suddenly he’s moving, opening the car door and stepping out. She blinks, then follows.

They walk side-by-side down the street - she's not leading or guiding him and she wonders if he's always known where she lives.

She doesn't want to ask.

It feels like talking now might break the spell.

And she really doesn't want to break this spell.

She unlocks the door to the building and holds it open for him. He presses the call button for the elevator and when it arrives he gestures for her to precede him.

And then they’re stuck together, in the tiny, rickety, old elevator as it make its slow way up the shaft.

She’s very determinedly not looking at him and she’s wondering if this was a good idea after all when she feels his hand brush against hers.

The touch sends a shiver through her.

His fingertips stroke over the back of her hand and she's never felt anything more erotic in her life and _this is just his hand in hers_.

He steps in so he's standing half-behind her, and she turns her left hand into his left hand and entwines their fingers together and then his right hand comes up and moves her ponytail to a side, pulls at the neck of her cardigan and then his lips are kissing the back and side of her neck.

And she gasps.

The feather-light kisses move up her neck to her ear and he nips at her earlobe and she moans.

She can actually feel the smile on his lips as he kisses along her skin. He brings up their joined hands to rest against her abdomen and then he’s pressing her back against him and his mouth bites down on her shoulder and-

The elevator dings as it reaches her floor.

The doors creak as they open and Felicity is staring down a corridor that stretches away in front of her. Her own front door, and her bed beyond that, seem almost too far away to contemplate.

She stares for too long and the doors start to close and Oliver’s hand leaves hers behind to reach up and push them back.

“Or do you want to stay in here?” He teases her, his mouth so close to her ear she can feel his breath on her skin.

“No!” She says, surprising herself with how loud she sounds.

She steps forward and he steps with her and then he’s turning her around, pressing her into the wall beside the elevator and kissing her.

Her hands are on his back and it’s a simple enough thing to pull his shirt out of the waistband of his pants and slip her hand up to rest against the bare skin of his lower back.

He has one hand on her face and the other is on her hip and her fingers on his skin seemingly cross some line because then his hand is inside her cardigan, tracing the skin on her shoulders, and she gently digs her nails into his back and scratches and it’s his turn to moan into her mouth.

Hs hips press into hers and she can feel the effect she’s had on him, is having on him and he rests his forehead against hers, his breath coming in pants.

“Which door is yours?” He ask, and his voice is strained.

“The far one,” she says, “apartment six.”

“Okay,” he says, and then he’s picking her up in a bridal carry and she giggles as he almost runs down the hall with her in his arms.

“Oliver!”

“If I didn’t do this,” he says in a rough voice, “I’d be taking you against that wall and I’d really like this to be more special than that.”

Her breath catches in her throat at the image and he grins at her.

“Later,” he says, and then they’re at her door.

He sets her on her feet and she digs through her bag searching for the keys she can never find and he’s behind her, biting down on her neck again and it’s incredibly distracting.

“Open the door,” he says and she realises that she closed her eyes and just savoured the feel of him and that the door in front of her is still locked.

“I can't find my keys,” she says. Her handbag is always too full of crap. Her keys hide from her.

“Find them,” he growls, “or I’ll break it down.”

She feels cold metal under her fingers and she grabs for the key chain, but then it takes her two tries to actually fit the key into her lock.

“Felicity,” he says, “you’re killing me.”

She turns the lock and the door opens and he's pushing her through, his hands stripping the cardigan off her shoulders and down her arms, and his mouth kissing her neck the whole time.

He unzips her dress and she has a sudden flash back to Dan from Coast City, her last overnight visitor, and he was fun but this is Oliver and he’s pulling her dress up and over her head and she’s standing in front of him in her underwear and his hands haven’t stopped moving.

“Bedroom?” He asks and she points, not trusting her ability to speak at this point and he lifts her up so she can wrap her legs around his waist and he’s walking them down the corridor.

“Do something for me?” He asks.

“Anything.”

“Let your hair down.”

Felicity gives him a quizzical look but then she pulls the tie out and her curls fall down around her shoulders and his hand comes up to scrunch them in his fist and he buries his face in her hair, his mouth latching on to that sensitive spot below her ear and she’s almost keening, he feels that good.

She sits back in his arms and unbuttons his shirt, slipping her hands inside to stroke and scratch his skin. She can't reach all the buttons but there’s enough access now for her to kiss his neck and bite at his shoulders. 

And then he lays her down on her bed and steps back and pulls at his shirt. Buttons pop off and Felicity laughs as Oliver gets the shirt caught around his right wrist. 

She sits up, reaching for cuff to help him but he’s already yanking it off and she hears the tell-tale sound of ripping material.

“I think your shirt is dead,” she laughs.

“That’s tomorrow’s problem,” he says, and she goes up on her knees on the bed to kiss him.

It’s different to how she expected. He’s different to what she expected.

Oliver is such an intense man, she had thought, when she had imagined this, which was something she has done more than is strictly healthy, that this would be all passionate looks and silence.

Instead there’s laughter. Playfulness.

“Have you got a shirt that will fit me?” He asks as he pushes her back down onto the bed.

“No,” she says, laughing as she shakes her head.

“Really?” He says, “no old baggy t-shirts going spare?”

“I very much doubt you’ll fit into one of my shirts,” she says. 

“I’ll go home looking like the Hulk,” he says.

“I would offer to sew it for you,” she says, then gasps as his mouth dips down to kiss the curve of her stomach. “But I can’t sew.”

“The one thing you can't do,” he teases.

“I also can’t dance,” she says.

“You can dance. You danced with me.”

“That’s different,” she says, “that was all you.”

He moves up her body, kissing different patches of skin seemingly at random. His ever-present stubble tickles her skin.

“You looked beautiful, that night,” he says, “I wanted to kiss you.”

“No, you didn't,” she says.

“Yes, I did,” and he lifts his head up to look her straight in the eye.

She feels herself blush, but why? What is it about him that lying here in her bed, with her in her underwear and his shirt lying ripped on the floor, why is it that it’s a look from him that raises blood to her cheeks and not the rest of it?

He grins.

“You’re remarkable Felicity Smoak,” he says.

“Thank you for remarking on it,” she says, remembering, and he moves up the bed and captures her mouth for a kiss.

She rolls them over and he sits up and she ends up in his lap, her legs wrapped around his waist.

He kisses along her shoulder blade and slips the bra strap off, out of the way. His fingers come up, unfastening her bra, and then the lace is loose around her and he slips one hand inside a cup, his thumb rubbing over her nipple and making her gasp.

She grinds against him and he lays her back against the bed, dropping his mouth down to kiss the curve of her left breast.

He takes his time on her chest, teasing and stroking one nipple while tasting and kissing his way to the other.

Her fingers slip into his hair and when he finally locks his mouth over her nipple and sucks, her back arches off the bed.

“Oliver,” she moans and he bites her, ever so gently.

She lays back, enjoying the sensations, the reality so much better than any fantasy she's ever had.

His hand ghosts over her stomach, moving down to stroke her inner thighs.

Her legs are around him, her whole body spread open and she’s revelling in his touch, in the way he strokes her through her panties and then she’s gasping as his fingers slip past the material and sink inside her.

“Oliver,” she gasps, and he grins.

He rests his weight on one arm, his body above her and just watches as he teases her clit with his thumb. She’s coming undone under him, her hips moving in rhythm with his hand, wanting more, more, more.

He adds a second finger alongside the first and she’s moaning, her body getting ever closer to release.

And then he curls his fingers forward and presses down with his thumb and she’s over the edge, pleasure spilling out across her body as she comes with his name on her lips.

He coaxes her through her orgasm, then, as she lies boneless and breathless he kisses her, one hand threading into her hair to hold her mouth to his.

He pulls back and she lets herself sink down into the pillows, enjoying the afterglow.

She opens her eyes to see him sitting on the edge of her bed, pulling at his boots.

“Is this going to be another shirt situation?” She asks lazily.

“The knots are too tight,” he says and he sounds so pentulent and annoyed that she laughs and slips off of the bed to kneel in front of him.

“I can’t believe you’re still wearing shoes,” she teases, and she pushes his hands away as she focuses on the tangle of laces and knots.

She makes swift work of the left boot but the real problem is the right one, and it takes her a minute to tease out the knotted lace with her fingernails.

“Ah ha!” She crows triumphantly when the knot comes loose and he leans down and kisses her, laughing at her mini victory dance.

She pulls the socks off his feet and he undoes his belt and then she moves his hands out of the way to reach for the button of his pants.

She leans in close and lays and open mouthed kiss on the skin of his abs, feeling the muscles jump at her touch.

His skin is damp with sweat, she can taste the salt of it, and she unbuttons his fly and mouths her mouth down, kissing every newly revealed scrap of skin.

She pulls at him and he takes the hint and lifts his hips, keeping his weight on his hands and she pulls his pants and underwear down, pushing them past his knees so all at once he’s naked.

Then she leans in to take his cock in her mouth and he’s suddenly incredibly still, as if he feels any movement might scare her off.

His cock is hard and heavy on her tongue and she closes her lips around him and takes him as deep as she can.

One of his hands comes up and hovers behind her head but doesn’t touch her, and after a minute it drops to her shoulder and holds onto her tightly.

She bobs her head, sucking him deeper and he groans.

“Felicity,” he says in a cracked voice, “you’re still wearing your glasses.”

And she tilts her head back to look up at him over her glasses and he moans and bites his lip.

“Felicity,” he gasps, “I don't want to finish like this-”

And suddenly his hands are under her arms, lifting her up, tossing her backwards into the pillows and pulling off her underwear.

He takes a second to pluck the glasses from her nose and places them on the bedside table and she’s incredibly touched at his concern.

“Condom?”

“Drawer.”

He opens the drawer and finds the small foil square. Rips it open and rolls the sheath onto himself. 

He crawls up her body and she wraps her legs around him and he rests his forehead against hers and she pulls him against her with her legs and she feels the pressure of his cock against her sex and then he’s inside her and he lets out a moan as he sinks home.

They stay there together, unmoving for a minute. Then she turns her head and bites down on his shoulder and they’ve moving.

She knows intellectually that he’s far bigger than she is, but it’s only here, with his weight and bulk pressing her down into her bed that she realises just how wide his shoulders are, so much larger than her slim frame.

She should feel crushed, but instead she feels delicate. Protected.

His thrusts are picking up speed but her hips are moving too, welcoming him into her and she squeezes him tighter with her legs and grinds up against him.

He drops his head to the side, and she feels his lips on her neck and then he’s rolling them and suddenly she’s on top of him.

His big hands come up to hold her hips, urging her to move and she does so, letting him guide her into riding him.

She tips her head back and feels the ends of her hair move against the skin of her back.

And then one of his hands moves to her clit and he’s rubbing her, teasing her and she’s coming almost before she realises it, her eyes locked on his as he brings her to climax a second time.

And then he’s thrusting up, harder and harder, fucking her through her orgasm, drawing the pleasure out.

She’s watching his face so she sees the second he tips over the edge, sees how his eyes close and his mouth falls open, his body tenses and releases, those last few movements drawing his release out.

She sags atop him and he pulls her down against him, running his hands over her hair and pressing a kiss to her lips.

His skin is hot to the touch and she settles into his embrace, one leg hooked over his, one hand stroking over the muscles in his chest.

Her fingertips trace the lines of his Bratva tattoo, but she doesn't ask the question. He’ll tell her if he wants her to know and asking now feels like it would be sacrilege.

They lie together in their mutual afterglow, skin against skin.

“Shit,” he swears suddenly and she sits up, all at once terrified that he’s changed his mind already. 

“What?!”

He looks up at her and smiles, ruefully.

“I left the cupcakes in the car.

And she laughs, partly from relief and partly because he just looks so annoyed with himself.

“It’s alright,” she says, “I’ll make you some more in the morning.”

“Just for me?”

“Well you and Diggle,” she says, “but mostly for you.”

He pulls her back down into his arms and presses a kiss into her hair.

“Maybe you could teach me how to bake,” he says.

“Maybe,” she agrees, and she feels so comfortable, so warm and happy and loved and exhausted by their love-making that she falls asleep in his arms, images of Oliver Queen and cupcakes dancing in her head.

He tastes better than cake.

She must remember to tell him that in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it! Hope you all liked it! Again this was supposed to be something short, but obviously I just can't do short fic right now...
> 
> And now I want cupcakes.


End file.
